


Childish Things

by Minnow_53



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, First War with Voldemort, Fluffy Ending, Getting Back Together, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Pining, eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27934048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minnow_53/pseuds/Minnow_53
Summary: A few weeks after school is over, Remus has a flat and a job, but he no longer has Sirius.  Or maybe he does...
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Kudos: 33





	Childish Things

**Author's Note:**

> First published on LiveJournal 28/11/08. Thanks to Westwardlee for the beta.  
> This was written for RS_Small_Gifts, a Christmas fic exchange on LJ. The prompt was _A flat that either Remus or Sirius hates (or grows to love)._

_When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.  
1 Corinthians Chapter 13, verse 11_  
  


__

__

‘You can have it, if you like,’ the landlord said, ‘but you must decide right away. There’s a lot of people after this flat.’

Remus didn’t need to be told – he’d been queuing since five that morning. He’d just been lucky enough to be the first in line.

He reached for his money bag, for the precious deposit and month’s rent that represented his life savings: or rather, eighteen years’ worth of birthday and Christmas gold put aside by his father and finally yielded, reluctantly, six weeks ago, when Remus left school. 

Once the lease was signed, the landlord went down to tell the other prospective tenants that the flat was gone. Remus could hear an angry rumbling, a woman’s voice raised shrilly to say that it was a shame, keeping people waiting like this when there was nothing to see. And a man said loudly, ‘Good riddance to it anyway! It’s only cheap because that old woman was murdered there.’ No doubt the loud man was hoping to scare Remus off so he could nab the flat for himself, but Remus wasn’t going anywhere, thank you. 

He wasn’t too concerned about the niceties of the place. It could have been a hole in the ground for all he cared, as long as there was running water and a bed of sorts. In fact, it was rather the opposite, an eyrie high in the sky, in what had once been the attic of a grand Victorian house. Even the most insensitive builder couldn’t completely disguise the charm of sloping ceilings, dormer windows and a skylight in the bedroom, but this one had given it his best shot; his excuse, presumably, the housing shortage and the desperate need for cheap accommodation. 

The kitchen and bathroom were half a room each – half a very small room – divided by a pasteboard wall. The bedroom was serviceable at best, with an iron bedstead and a lumpy mattress. The sitting-room was quite big, with a rather sweet dining table and chairs by the window, but the Floo had obviously been boarded up at some time and clumsily repaired, so big chunks of wood still littered the floor. 

Remus flung open the casement for some air, and checked out the view: beneath him, the tiny garden that belonged to the basement tenant, in front of him rooftops and gables, and in the distance the trees of Green Park, caught between their late summer and early autumn foliage. 

It struck him that, for the first since he’d been bitten, nobody knew where he was. For a moment, the feeling was exhilarating, but then it turned to mild panic. He went downstairs and knocked on the door below his, which was answered by a rounded, middle-aged witch with her hair in a messy bun. She gave him directions to the shops, and offered him a cup of tea. 

‘Or how about a nice piece of cake?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got a big coconut sponge, just out of the oven. And some flapjacks.’

‘No, thank you. I must get on.’

‘You could do with a piece of cake,’ the woman persisted. ‘Skin and bone, you young people nowadays.’

Remus sidled off and down the stairs, repeating ‘No, thank you’ like a robot until he reached the front door and headed out to the street. It was a high street of the sort often to be found in London boroughs, with a butcher’s shop, a newsagent – the Prophet headlines screamed _War Averted, Says Minister!_ – and an apothecary. Remus found the post office and sent owls to his parents and Sirius with his new address, and, after a moment’s hesitation, to James and Peter as well. 

When the owls had been dispatched, Remus wandered into the game shop across the road, where he admired the prototype model for the Z-Box180, now further beyond his means than ever, and played a game called Grand Theft Broomstick on the demo. After he’d crashed three stolen broomsticks, the game ended, and he reluctantly made his way back to the flat. 

He climbed the five flights of stairs, fumbling for his key on the dark staircase – damn, he hadn’t left it in the flat, had he? – and nearly tripped over someone sitting on the top step, right outside his door.

‘Ow! Watch it! D’you kick all your visitors half to death?’

‘Sirius! That was quick! I’ve only just sent you an owl.’

‘Just thought I’d drop in to say hello. It’s been a while.’

Remus unlocked the door, letting Sirius in first. He immediately regretted it: he really should have done something to the place before telling anyone about it, like painting the walls, which he now noticed were dingy and patchy, and perhaps putting some carpet on the unevenly-nailed down wooden floors.

Sirius didn’t comment, though he tried the tap in the kitchen, which ran rusty water for a few minutes then sputtered out altogether. ‘So. How’s life in the real world treating you, Moony?’

Remus shrugged. ‘Okay. I’ve got this flat, and a job. How about you?’

Sirius grinned. ‘Great! I went to four parties over the weekend, and I have an interview at St. Mungo’s tomorrow.’

‘Have you seen any of the others?’

‘Well, Prongs and Evans were at one of the parties. They danced together all evening. Didn’t say a word to anyone else. And I bumped into Peter yesterday, and he told me a long anecdote about the Ministry. And I’m here with you now. Actually’ – Sirius reached into the pocket of his robes – ‘I’m on a sort of mission. Dumbledore wanted me to contact as many of the Gryffindor school-leavers as possible. About a secret society. ’ He fished out a roll of parchment and handed it to Remus. 

‘Sounds like a kids’ game,’ Remus said.

‘I wish it was! It's great that we’ll be able to do our bit to fight Voldemort.’ 

Remus’s heart contracted. ‘But that’s all finished now, isn’t it? I mean, there can’t be a war. The Prophet says so.’

‘There already _is_ a war, Moony. And it’s up to us to try and stop it. Who else is going to?’

Remus didn’t have an answer to that, so he said, ‘I see your point.’ He wished he’d taken up the plump woman on her offer of tea and cake, because he’d completely forgotten to buy food. All the same, he asked, ‘Would you like something to drink? I could nip down and get some tea, or some Butterbeer.’

‘No, thanks. I’ve got to rush.’

But Sirius lingered, standing in the doorway. He reached forward suddenly, and his mouth brushed Remus’s for a second, and then he was holding him close, so close Remus could hardly breathe. Then, he pushed Remus abruptly away and said in a rather strained voice, ‘Just forget I did that, okay?’ 

Remus said nothing.

‘It’s still over,’ Sirius said defensively, ‘so you better not get any ideas.’

‘I’m not.’

They stared at each other for a minute or two, until Sirius turned and left, slamming the door. Remus could hear him running down all five flights of stairs, his footsteps echoing on the bare boards. And the sitting-room, which had been momentarily filled with light and golden sunshine, seemed shabbier and meaner than ever.

‘I hate you,’ Remus said fiercely, not sure whether he was talking to the flat or to Sirius; but possibly he meant both.

*

That night, he dreamed that he and Sirius were back at school, and Sirius was training to be a boxer. He told Remus, ‘I’m going to knock the other guy out,’ and started to thump an enormous punch-bag. He made a lot of noise, thumping, so much that Remus woke, his heart pounding, and realised that the sound was coming from inside the flat.

He leapt out of bed, grabbed his wand, and searched every room, but there was nobody there and the flat was silent. All the same, he slept only fitfully for the rest of the night. He hadn’t given the murdered old lady a second thought, but now, in his dreams, he imagined her begging, ‘Please don’t hurt me!’ and heard her body thudding on to the kitchen floor. He woke up feeling as if he’d gone fourteen rounds in a boxing-ring himself, not the best start to his first day at work. 

Still, it was a sunny September morning, and Remus was pleased to find that the Floo in the flat was on the central network, so he had an easy commute to Diagon Alley. He arrived at Gladrags well on time, and the boss gave him a cup of tea then showed him how to use the till. ‘We don’t normally allow new staff on the till, but you’ve got excellent Arithmancy qualifications,’ she said with a smile. He was to do his probationary period in the men’s underwear department: not very inspiring, but at least he would be able to pay his rent. 

His life soon assumed a routine. Work was uneventful – he rang up sales, gave change and handed out receipts. After work, he cashed up, gave the takings to his boss, and stepped into the Floo, tumbling on to his hearth at five thirty-two. He had a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits, then busied himself painting the walls green, tidying up the rubbish by the fireplace and trying to get the place to look a bit more like home.

Every few days, exciting-looking owls arrived from his parents, lumpy parcels that he tore open only to find rather less exciting contents: bedclothes, a frying pan, a book of household spells, a toolbox. All the same, he had to admit that he was more comfortable when he wasn’t sleeping on a bare mattress; and the spell for fried eggs was useful, especially as he could always eat the rejects. On the downside, even with his new toolbox he didn’t manage to fix the persistent rattling of the skylight in the bedroom.

On his third Saturday at work, Remus was busy serving a very fussy woman buying underwear for her husband when he looked up and saw Sirius standing by the till, watching him. Sirius winked, and Remus said ‘Excuse me a minute,’ to his customer and went over to say hello.

‘Sorry, not buying anything,’ Sirius said. ‘I just wanted to find out how you were getting on.’

‘Fine.’ Remus could see the fussy woman out of the corner of his eye purposefully approaching the manager, and his heart sank. ‘Sirius, I can’t talk now. She’s going to complain to my boss and I’ll lose my job.’

Sirius grinned. ‘D’you want me to Obliviate her?’

‘No! No. Look, I have to go.’

He thought that Sirius looked a bit regretful as he turned away, but it was hard to tell.

*

Sirius didn’t come back to the shop, and Remus berated himself bitterly for not making time for him. He tried to keep himself occupied with his extensive decorating, which worked up to a point to keep Sirius out of his mind.

Halfway through October, he finally finished painting the bathroom, and sat down for a break with the Prophet crossword. He was just looking for a quill when the sitting-room window started to rattle in its turn, with a sound uncannily like that of chattering teeth...or like a murdered woman’s skeletal hands fumbling at the window-catch. No sooner had the image flashed across his mind than the floorboard behind him creaked, and seconds later he found himself crouched beside the dining table, his wand drawn and ready to strike, with no recollection of how he’d got there. 

‘Moony, you okay?’

He looked up, startled, straight into the eyes of Sirius and Peter.

‘We should have sent an owl first,’ Peter said, in a faintly accusing tone.

Sirius said, ‘You really need to put wards on the flat, Moony. There was a witch with us in the Floo, and she got quite indignant when we landed here. She wanted to go to Pimlico.’ He looked round curiously. ‘Goodness, it’s certainly a lot better than when I last saw it.’

‘Is it? I think the green was a mistake.’

‘No, the green’s fine. Though it mightn’t be so good in daylight. Anyway. Peter and I are here on business.’

‘Oh.’

‘Remember I told you about the secret society? It’s called The Order of the Phoenix, and we can go to meetings from next Tuesday. Peter and I are the secret keepers.’ He glanced at Peter. ‘You’ve got to give him the address.’

Peter, beaming with his own importance, handed Remus a slip of parchment. Remus unfolded it and read _Above Eeylop’s Owl Emporium, Diagon Alley, 7 o’clock._ After a couple of minutes, the parchment dissolved gently into a pile of ashes.

‘Did you memorise that?’ Sirius asked. ‘It’s right near where you work.’

‘Shut up,’ Peter said. ‘We’re not allowed to say it.’

‘Better get on,’ Sirius said. ‘We’ve got about twenty of these to deliver.’ And as Peter turned away to scatter the Floo powder, he squeezed Remus’s hand and said, ‘You won’t forget, will you? I’ll be looking out for you.’ But then he added, ‘We really need as many people as possible,’ and Remus snatched his hand away.

As soon as they’d gone, Remus stuck out his tongue at the Floo, and felt a lot better for it. He was just sorry Sirius wouldn’t see him. Then, he went to the kitchen, got out his new frying pan and made two fried egg sandwiches, which he gobbled down leaning against the counter. ‘Don’t expect _me_ to swell the numbers at your stupid meeting,’ he muttered, through a mouthful of greasy bread. 

*

The Order meetings soon became the high point of Remus’s week, but his pleasure in those Tuesday evenings had nothing whatsoever to do with Dumbledore’s speeches or various reports from the field. Because though he still hated Sirius, and they were absolutely, totally finished, and it had only been a stupid, childish thing anyway, he found that he quite enjoyed seeing him and hearing what he’d been up to. And he thought Sirius quite enjoyed seeing him too, though of course Sirius would never admit it.

The first week, Sirius told him all about his Healer training. ‘It’s really great, Moony! We get to work with real, live bodies! Well, they’re not _literally_ alive, of course. But I can already cure minor jinxes.’ Seeing Sirius’s face light up, his grey eyes shining, made Remus happy too, even though Sirius’s pleasure had nothing to do with him.

The next week, Sirius put his arm round Remus in a friendly manner and squeezed his shoulder. ‘How’re you doing?’ He kept his arm there while he and Remus were chatting to James, even when James embarked on a long, complex joke about three sailors walking into a bar. At the punch line, which was something like ‘A Butterbeer for me and a port for my friends’, Sirius tightened his grip a bit. Remus laughed obediently, and James seemed pleased that he’d found the story funny. 

The third week, Sirius kept turning round during the meeting, mouthing something at Remus that he couldn’t understand: he seemed full of suppressed excitement, and obviously had important news to impart. Afterwards, he rushed over to Remus, grabbed his arm, and said, ‘Let’s go for a drink.’

In the Leaky Cauldron, Sirius tossed back his firewhisky, leaned across the table and said, ‘I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but I know you’re good at keeping secrets. I had to go on a mission last week. Undercover work.’ In spite of his low voice and attempt at a sombre expression, Sirius couldn’t quite contain his joy at the concept of ‘undercover’. ‘A few of Voldemort’s people are hiding out in St Mungo’s, and McGonagall sent me to snoop round in the mental ward.’

‘Are you allowed to call it a mental ward?’ Remus asked, with great interest.

‘Not really. We’re supposed to refer to it as the Dippet Memorial Suite. Anyway, I found one of the infiltrators pretty quickly. Remember that ugly Slytherin at school? Not Snivellus, the other one. The one who cheated in his Potions NEWT.’

‘I think so.’

‘Well, the guy in St Mungo’s is his father. He used to be head of Apparition Offences at the Ministry, but he started to campaign against half-bloods having licences, so he got shunted over to Magical Creatures.’

‘Perhaps he really _is_ mad,’ Remus said.

‘Well, yes, you have to be crazy at some level to follow Voldemort, but he’s generally pretty lucid. Moody thinks he’s trying to recruit more death eaters.’

‘But why would he recruit people in a mental ward?’ asked Remus. 

‘Well, I s’pose he’s targeting the staff mainly. And I'm sure the idea of a despotic warmonger would appeal to a few of the patients.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I had to stay undercover.’ Sirius obviously couldn’t help smiling at that word again. ‘They may want me to do some more spying. I confirmed who he was, and the Aurors are going to go in with their wands blazing and interrogate him. I’d love to have given him a good dose of Cruciatus myself, though. And please don’t tell me it’s illegal, Moony. I already know.’

Remus shut his mouth.

‘Still, even if I’m not allowed to fight anyone, at least I’ll be able to patch up our casualties. And Prongs is going to tell me about all the Auror action, or as much as he can.’

They finished their drinks and wandered back out to Diagon Alley. Sirius glanced at his watch. ‘Damn! I’m supposed to have been back at ten.’

‘Back where?’

‘Didn’t I tell you? I’m living in at the hospital at the moment, and they lock us out if we’re late.’

‘You could sleep on my sofa,’ Remus volunteered. He wasn’t sure whether he should have: after all, if Sirius was shut out of St Mungo’s, he had a perfectly good flat of his own to go to. But Sirius looked relieved, and his face lit up again.

‘Can I? Thanks, Moony. When did you get a sofa?’ 

‘Last weekend. I got a bonus at work.’

For once, Remus felt eager to get back to the flat, and he was pleased that he’d left the sitting-room lamp on and had a good supply of tea, plus half a bottle of firewhisky. Sirius accepted both, together with several custard creams and a thick slice of toast with jam. ‘The food at the hospital’s awful,’ he said, with his mouth full. ‘We have to eat the same as the patients, and if I see another healthy meal I’m going to throw it at someone.’

He sank down next to Remus on the white leather sofa, and sighed happily. ‘It _is_ nice. A bit like the sofa at my flat.’

‘I really can’t remember,’ Remus lied. 

Sirius put his glass on the floor. ‘Seeing I’m going to spend the night here...’ He edged closer. ‘Look. I’ve been thinking. We’re both adults, right? And we've always been good friends.’

‘Absolutely.’ Remus held his breath.

'So there’s no reason why we shouldn’t occasionally sleep together, is there? I mean, that’s what adults do. We can be civilised about it. No strings or complications. We managed all right at school, didn’t we?’

‘Yes,’ Remus said. He’d long since accepted that he and Sirius must have very different memories of those past encounters. 

Sirius looked hopeful. ‘So I’m not sleeping on the sofa, then?’

‘Actually, it’s probably more comfortable than the bed.’

Still, the bedroom seemed unusually welcoming that evening. Remus’s bedside lamp with its cream shade shed a warm circle of light. The Golden Snitches on his duvet cover seemed to twinkle softly, and for once the skylight wasn’t rattling, even though it was quite windy out. He was glad that his mother, in one of her frequent letters, had reminded him to wash his bedclothes from time to time. They smelt clean and crisp, of lemon soap-powder and the very finest Scouring Spells the local launderette could muster.

It seemed like forever since he’d curled up next to Sirius on a bed: he could probably have given the exact number of months, weeks and even seconds, but he was too absorbed in allowing his starved senses to remember him. Sirius's skin: rich boy’s skin, cool and smooth, though his hands were slightly rougher than before, with a couple of cuts from using his wand to dissect bodies. His chin was now covered with the faintest layer of stubble, but his hair was as silky and thick as ever. And his eyes still remained open, and whenever the two of them surfaced for air, he still gazed at Remus with that slightly dispassionate expression that could have meant anything from ‘I adore you’ to ‘You’re okay.’ 

But he held Remus very close, as he had on the first day he came to the flat, and his heart was thumping, and they kissed and clung to each other with what felt to Remus like equal fervour, making up for lost time during that long, magical night. And not once did the floorboards creak or the wind whine through the windows, but the flat was quiet, as if it were temporarily at peace. 

At one point, Remus asked, though he knew he shouldn’t, ‘Have you slept with a lot of other people since school?’ But Sirius just smiled, enigmatic again, curled his head into Remus’s shoulder and dozed off.

Remus’s alarm woke him at seven. He switched it off at once, anxious not to wake Sirius, and tiptoed into the bathroom to dress. The bathroom mirror smiled back at him, and he could have sworn he heard music wafting in from somewhere in the building. 

When he got home that evening, spilling ungracefully out of the Floo in his eagerness to see Sirius again, the flat was empty, and there was a new crack on the sitting-room ceiling, which looked exactly like a mocking, triumphant face. Sirius had at least left a note, saying _See you at the meeting next week_ ; only he wouldn’t, because it was the full moon and Remus would be at the Werewolf Registry, locked in a cage with four others of his kind. And it was cold and dark, so Remus didn’t even have the consolation of his view, just a blank window rimed with frost inside and out and this morning’s Prophet, open at the half-done crossword, with another note from Sirius: _Hope you won’t mind that I started this!_ Remus _did_ mind, but there was nothing he could do about it.

And at the next meeting he managed to attend, at the tail-end of November, he only had time for a brief word with Sirius, who was apparently going on another undercover mission. He did say, ‘Hope the moon wasn’t too bad,’ and then muttered, ‘I missed you! I’ll be in touch about that thing – you know!’ Remus wasn’t quite sure what thing he meant, and he certainly didn’t intend to get his hopes up. 

*

Sirius didn’t get in touch, and he wasn’t at the next meeting either, or the one after that. Remus was worried he might have been rumbled, but Professor McGonagall assured him Sirius was fine, and ‘doing sterling work for the Order.’ The full moon arrived in mid-December, hot on the heels of the last, and afterwards Remus felt even more out of sorts than before.

He blamed the flat. ‘If you hadn’t been so crummy, Sirius wouldn’t have rushed off,’ he told the sitting-room, and he slammed the bedroom skylight shut, muttering between his teeth, ‘If you rattle _one more time_ I’m going to smash you to pieces.’ He also lost his temper with the bathroom mirror, which had long since ceased smiling at him but made sour faces instead. Remus made an even sourer face back, and said, ‘I hope you didn’t look at _Sirius_ like that! He’s awfully vain.’ The mirror scowled, and Remus unhooked it and turned it to face the wall. ‘That’s for offending my friend,’ he said loudly. 

The flat seemed to take his annoyance personally. An unpleasant smell developed in the kitchen and bathroom, and Remus discovered a nest of baby mice under the kitchen sink. The landlord had to send in an exterminator, and Remus got the bill, even though the man had done nothing more than a simple Banishing Charm. 

Remus stayed out as much as he could during the days before Christmas. Instead of taking the Floo after work he lingered in Diagon Alley, now bright with golden lights, suffused with the scent of pine and melodic with carol singers on every corner. When all the shops had closed and he really couldn’t hang round any longer, he went home on the Muggle underground, as it took a satisfying amount of time to cover the three miles to the flat. Besides, he and Sirius had always travelled by tube when they were in London during their schooldays. Every time he went down the ancient, clattering escalators, he could almost hear Sirius saying, ‘Moony, isn’t it amazing how the Muggles crowd on to those narrow platforms?’ 

He soon got used to approaching the house from outside, underneath a clear, winter sky full of stars, instead of landing on his own hearth. Sometimes, he thought he saw something else in the sky above his dark kitchen window, the ghost of a green skull, which made him more uneasy than he liked to admit. And one night, as he unlocked his front door, he heard scuffling noises, and a distinct scream. He shouted back, alarmed, ‘Who’s there?’

The plump woman in the flat downstairs opened her door and called up, ‘Are you all right, dear?

‘I’m fine,’ said Remus. The noise had subsided, so he let himself in cautiously, his wand at the ready. His breakfast things were still on the table, the curtains undrawn, but he could have sworn there was a dark shape on the sofa...a shape like a big, black dog. 

‘Padfoot!’ Remus cried, his heart leaping. His wand blazed into light, and he blinked, but the room was empty, and there was nothing on his sofa but a crumpled pair of pants and yesterday’s paper. He searched in the kitchen, and the bedroom, where the bed had once again stubbornly refused to make itself; and in the bathroom, where the tap stuck when he tried to get a glass of water. He even looked behind the sofa, but no dog was hiding there waiting to pounce and surprise him.

After that, he didn’t feel like any supper but went straight to bed, where even dreams of Sirius eluded him. He woke more exhausted than when he’d gone to sleep, and wasn’t sure whether he was pleased or sorry that it was his last morning at work before the holidays.

Gladrags closed a day earlier than any other shop, and the staff had the afternoon off as well. Remus celebrated with a lunchtime Butterbeer at the Cauldron, and wrote his Christmas list as he drank it. A new quill for his mother, to help with all those letters. He always got gloves for his father. Sirius, as far as he was concerned, didn’t really warrant a present, but all the same, he reluctantly wrote ‘Comb or something for hair’ beside his name, and then decided to put off his shopping till tomorrow. He folded the list neatly and set off home on the Northern Line, riding out to Edgware and then back again. 

When he arrived at the house it was already dark, but there was no mistaking Sirius’s motorbike parked directly outside, in an illegal space. Remus was wary enough to go and touch the gleaming chrome handlebars: they certainly _felt_ solid. No doubt Sirius just happened to be in the neighbourhood, probably at the local greengrocer’s which sold a stunning selection of exotic fruit and vegetables, though Remus couldn’t really imagine Sirius going miles out of his way for fruit and veg. 

He trudged upstairs, eager yet reluctant at the same time, but there wasn’t much opportunity for speculation, because Sirius bounded on to the landing to meet him, crying out ‘Moony!’ at the top of his voice. Fortunately, the plump witch must have been in her kitchen baking, because she didn’t peer out to see what all the fuss was about.

‘But I saw your bike outside!’ Remus said. ‘If you didn’t use the Floo, how did you get in?’ 

Sirius looked a bit shifty. ‘Alohomora. I know the Ministry’ll probably come down on me like a ton of bricks, but you see, it was an emergency.’

This time it was Sirius who ushered Remus into the flat, watching him with a half-eager, half-apprehensive expression on his face, the one that usually meant ‘I’ve done something really stupid, but it might be brilliant, so don’t judge me.’

The sitting-room had been transformed. There was tinsel festooned over the mantelpiece, and shiny foil chains of green, blue and red dangled from the ceiling. A small tree stood on the dining table, decorated with red and gold baubles and a string of coloured fairy lights: the modern kind, not real fairies, to Remus’s relief, because fairies could be an awful nuisance if they got loose and started flying around everywhere.

‘Well?’

Remus took a deep breath. ‘It’s...it’s great, Sirius. Thank you.’

‘D’you really like it?’ Not waiting for an answer, Sirius ploughed on. ‘I thought I’d stay with you for Christmas, if that’s all right. We’ve got a whole week off, imagine! You’re not going to your parents’, are you?’

‘Not now.’

‘And after Christmas...well, Moony, I don’t want to be mean, but this place is rather a tip, isn’t it? I thought you might like to come to my flat for a while. As a tenant, that is. You can have a lease and pay rent, if you like. Or not, of course.’

‘But I thought you were living at St Mungo’s.’

‘Oh, that was only for the first couple of months,’ Sirius said, dismissing St Mungo’s with a wave of his hand. ‘While we were learning the really gruesome stuff. We’re allowed to go home in the New Year. So, how about it?’

‘Well. There is a housing crisis,’ Remus said slowly. ‘A lot of people would be happy to live here.’

He thought that _he’d_ be happy to live here too, for one final week, as long as Sirius was with him. They could throw a big Christmas Eve party and invite James and Lily, and Peter, and the other Order members. He’d make eggnog, with plenty of brandy. And they could have turkey on Christmas Day: Sirius was wonderful at cooking spells. And he’d get Sirius a comb after all, and some of that new conditioner that left your hair looking freshly-washed for up to three weeks, though he didn’t think Sirius would manage to go even three days without washing his hair.

‘This doesn’t mean we’re together, though,’ Sirius said.

‘Of course not.’

But all the same, Sirius put his arms around him and kissed him, a real kiss, not a brush of the lips; and Remus kissed him back. They stood there for what must have been a good ten minutes, before Sirius pulled away and said accusingly, ‘Bloody mistletoe.’

Remus looked up at the ceiling, and started to say ‘What mistletoe?’ but stopped himself just in time. He simply smiled, and drew Sirius back towards him for another kiss. 

**End**


End file.
